If
by Melanie Athene
Summary: Someday Dean Winchester was going to kiss his angel. Coda to 12x23. Major character death.


When he thought about it – which to be totally honest with himself, he _did_ think about, _a lot_ – Dean always smiled. Just a little up curl of his lips; never a big dopey grin that showed all his teeth but, rather, a smile as secret as his thoughts. A smile that even Sam might not notice being there – or might haughtily inquire if Dean had gas, if he somehow did mark its presence.

Now Dean had always had a very fertile imagination when it came to creating erotic fantasies. Years of practice, you might say. So much so that it could make him blush if a particularly naughty scene vividly played out at an inopportune time. Blush, or squirm uncomfortably in his seat. Leading once again to Sam snottily observing, "If you're going to fart, Dean, crack a window open."

Ha! Like _he_ should talk, Mr. Let's-Have-Burritos-For-Lunch.

Anyway, this particular daydream was unlike any other Dean had dreamed down through the years. It wasn't especially racy, although it did set his heart to racing until he thought it would thump its way right out of his chest. No clothes were shed in frenzied passion. Quite often, there was no body contact at all: just two lips meeting two lips in a gentle, hesitant, _meaningful_ kiss. A kiss that rocked his world.

The circumstances of this little daydream varied. Sometimes they were alone – in a field of flowers, for fuck's sake. How cliché was that? Sometimes it was on a mountaintop, with the whole world laid out beneath their feet and a universe of stars above, but they only had eyes for each other. Sometimes Sam was there: a lumbering moose frozen mid-step into the Bunker's kitchen, his jaw dropped to his knees like some crazy Looney Tunes character. They were on a hunt, or watching TV, or simply sitting in the Impala. It was raining, it was sunny; it was snowing, it was foggy, or lightning was forking its way through the sky. It was night or day, hot or cold, here or there. But always, always, always, it was –

Cas.

Who else could it be?

Dean had conceded that particular battle years ago. This angel – _his_ angel – was it for him. And that kiss was going to happen. It wasn't a question of if, it was a matter of when.

There were so many times when it could have happened.

So many lingering glances over the years, so many times they stood close, so very close, so close that that a shared breath was the only distance that remained between them. But there was always something that tore them apart, sending them reeling off in separate directions: angels, demons, leviathans, Amara, Cain, Lucifer, the British Men of Letters, Lucifer again...

In Purgatory he had hacked and clawed his way past innumerable monsters; run and walked and even crawled through muck and mire, blood and gore, determined to keep on keeping on until he found the friend he had lost. And when finally he found him, the joy that filled his heart had spilled out as a blazing smile. Probably the only genuinely happy smile the godforsaken realm had ever known. As he wrapped his arms around the angel he thought to himself, _It would be so easy to turn my head. To nuzzle my way across his neck, up his chin, until our lips finally meet._ But Benny was watching. But Castiel was still not entirely sane. And so Dean contented himself with a hug – their first! – and breathed Castiel's familiar scent in as if he'd finally found his way home.

Too many times since then, Dean had bitten back the words _I love you,_ replacing them with _you're family_ or _I need you._ Honest words, but pale imitations of the way he truly felt: the way his heart lightened when the angel walked into the room; the way his soul yearned for him when he wasn't there.

Almost faster than he could process, a few of those other times flashed through his mind.

 _I could go with you..._

 _Dean, you're alive!_

 _You mean too much to me – to everything._

 _I love you. I love all of you._

It wasn't as if Castiel hadn't set him up with perfect opportunities to declare he loved him too. But... always _but_. But the world was ending. But his mother was there. But Sam was hurt or missing. But Dean was too fucking angry, or too exhausted, or simply too chickenshit to dare. But... but... but...

 _Someday,_ Dean told himself, each and every time he let the golden moment slip by, _someday I'll grow a pair._

No more making excuses, then. No more hiding the truth he longed to share. Someday, he'd turn that casual bro hug into a lover's embrace. Maybe give Castiel's hand a tug, tumble him into his arms and whisper all the words he should have said right from the start. Maybe wine and dine him first, bring him flowers, take him dancing – hell if he knew what that nebulous maybe might entail. He certainly didn't plan to put any limitations on it – chick flick moments (and Sam's inevitable teasing) be damned.

Because all those maybes led to one sure thing.

Someday Dean Winchester was going to kiss his angel.

But here? Now? This wasn't how it was meant to have happened.

Tears were not supposed to be streaming down Dean's face. The lips beneath his were not supposed to be cold, unmoving, incapable of response.

And they _would_ have responded. He's sure of that.

If...

If only...

If only he hadn't waited until it was too late.


End file.
